


An Uneventful Event

by RIC (prussia)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Comedy, Dark Comedy, Litfic, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-10 09:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prussia/pseuds/RIC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the style of Hetaween, France is throwing a big party, and all the countries are invited to attend! Although the cause of celebration is kept secret...Prussia is excited, and Germany is stressed. As the event unfolds, complete with a bird in a coat, and an ever-watchful ghost, the evening becomes marred by mishaps. Despite his faults, and flaws, Prussia hopes to find at least one bit of happiness, before the night ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The main pairing of this story is PruAus. It also contains AusHun, which is cast aside for PruAus, so I was hesitant to tag it as AusHun. Also present is one mention of past-tense GerAus. GerIta and FrUk are both minor pairings, as is Spain x Romano, but the Spamano never really comes to fruition, as the other two minor pairings do. No human names are used. The only trigger warning would be for substance abuse: Prussia, and several other countries, drink and smoke. This was written as part of a 30 Day Writing Challenge, for the words: Companion, Move, Silver, and Prepared. -- Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

His companion for the evening wore a red and blue coat.

"You look great!" said Prussia, as he finished sliding the tiny sleeves over Gilbird's wings. The miniature coat Prussia sewed; small enough to fit a doll. The plump bird hopped about, either happy or confused. Prussia assumed it was the former, but Gilbird cheeped as if asking, 'Why am I wearing clothes, while all the sparrows in the park run naked?'

Prussia rummaged through his closet, searching for a suit to wear. A white tuxedo was freed from the metal rack.

He showered, and dressed, and slicked back his hair. "If I look like Germany tonight, there's no way Cute Italy will refuse to dance with me!" he said to his reflection in the mirror.

He knelt to the floor, and dug beneath the bed, grunting, and peering, bending further, until he was lying on his stomach. "Almost got it," he said.

Grabbing a pair of black glossy shoes, he gleamed with a triumphant grin. Sitting on the bed, and tying his laces. Rushing back to the bathroom, straightening his clothes: a nervous school girl on prom night.

He topped off the ensemble with a blue bow-tie. A bit of cologne, he stole from Germany's medicine cabinet. Found it hidden behind four bottles of liquid antibacterial soap, alphabetized by fragrance.

Downstairs, Germany was waiting for his big brother. Holding car keys, and tapping his foot. He eyed Prussia's outfit, and held back his words by shutting his eyes, and shaking his head, and it's a shame all of Prussia's closest friends (a bird, and his brother, and the memory of Old Fritz) were often silent when Prussia needed the most reassurance.

"Shall we go?" Prussia said.

Germany opened the door, to lead the way to the garage. "We should have left seven and a half minutes ago!"

...

As the two brothers spotted the large building, matching the address on the invitation sent to them by France, Prussia and Germany exchanged glances.

"France went out of his way, with this one," Germany said.

The hall had been rented for a party, but no one knew what they were celebrating. It wasn't Halloween, and no one was getting married, and why on earth were they all dressed up and waiting outside, in line, to be announced, and ushered in like royalty at a ball?

Parked, and slammed doors. Standing in line in front of the Nordic Five, and behind the Baltic Trio; listening to Sweden quietly comfort Sealand as he whined to Latvia about Wy talking to Seborga, instead of to him.

The announcer at the podium on the threshold of the double-doored entrance, leaned near the microphone, and spoke, "Germany...and his brother, the former nation of Prussia."

"YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO ADD THAT LAST PART!!" screamed Prussia.

Germany grabbed ahold of his brother's coattail, and pulled him away from the trembling announcer. Adjusting his glasses, the man moved on. "The sea fort who calls himself a country, but has never been properly recognized."

Finland petted Sealand's hair, as Sealand trailed along and cried.

...

In an elegant room with a domed ceiling, gold and powder-blue silk curtains draped all around, silver-framed paintings of former kings and borrowed masterpieces on the walls, and candles lit on every table, the two brothers ventured, and gawked.

"France should have stuck to a budget," said Germany.

The extravagance turned his stomach, and he stood, sweat on his brow, digging into his pocket, checking for the sixth time of the evening, to make sure his phone was turned on, and charged, and receiving signal. 

Worried about Austria, or waiting for Italy to call, and explain why he and Romano were late: Prussia didn't know which, and didn't care; probably both, but deciphering West and his love of caring for everyone in a close vicinity to his country was boring to Prussia compared to the bevy of food and drinks, and the band setting up their instruments on stage. He sneezed, and once being blessed by his little brother -- _Gesundheit_ \-- he wandered off mumbling, "I'm surprised France didn't hire an orchestra...Austria could have led it!"


	2. Chapter 2

"Orchestra...Osterreich...Ostrich. Heh."

Prussia played weird word association games in his head as he wandered through the ballroom. Mumbling to himself, as other guests arrived. Imagining Austria as an oversized bird, running wild through the outback of Australia -- and why did those two have almost the same name?? They weren't related!! -- and thinking of Austria sticking his head in the sand, every time a meeting was called and he didn't want to attend -- Germany discussing EU and money and budgets and spending and...spoomf! Head in the sand. -- nearly caused Prussia to come unhinged with stifled laughter. Odd glances from his fellow countries. No, cross out 'fellow'; expunged from the map. A bottle of white-out spilt on the text of an illustrated history book. His picture would remain, but little else.

'And it's not even my picture,' thought Prussia. He shifted his attention to the domed ceiling, and whatever, or, whomever he thought he saw floating up there. "It's your picture, Old Man!"

Fritz's Ghost was indeed present, and shaking a fist at Prussia, for choosing to drink a glass of wine, instead of beer. 'Cute Italy would approve,' thought Prussia, fidgeting with his tie.

Normally, no cute country could faze Prussia into deviating from his favorite drink, but ah, tonight was special! Prussia could feel it...he wanted to dance, and have fun, and who cares if Italy went straight to Germany's side, the moment Italy and Romano arrived. And who cares if Romano went straight to Spain's arms, as Spain gravitated straight to Romano. And who cares if Austria walked in, hand-in-hand with Hungary?

Prussia spotted the couple, and stared. "Stupid Ostrich," said Prussia, and drowned out the thought by downing the remainder of his wine. One gulp and it was finished. Gone! "Austria and Hungary who?! I don't know these people..."

Prussia hovered near the table of pre-poured wine glasses, and took shots as if standing in a 19th Century American saloon. As if the wine were whiskey. Ready to draw a six-shooter, and blood. Ready to bruise something, or someone. Himself, or another, and he didn't care which. "I'm not worried," he said to Fritz above. "It's not like they can stay together all night."

"Who are you talking to?" came a child's voice from beneath the table. At the same moment, Prussia felt a small set of fingers tugging at his pants.

He flipped up the tablecloth, and bent over. "Fritzy, is that you?!" Prussia whispered.

It was Sealand. Tearstained cheeks, and rumpled hair. Latvia was sitting with him, nursing an entire bottle of wine.

Prussia thought surely Latvia was too young for such stuff, but then again, how old was Latvia?? Prussia didn't know his own age, anymore, let alone the ages of the other countries.

"Come join us!" said Sealand.

Prussia scooted in closer, still crouched down; his head tucked beneath the tablecloth, as if trying to spy the puppeteers at a children's puppet show. Where do the hands go, and who moves the mouths? Who was talking.

"A couple of babies beneath the table," seethed Prussia. "I'm too big for this stuff!"

He raised up, and hit his head on the underside of the long table housing the wine buffet; hundreds of pre-poured glasses, and several bottles of vintage, all went flying and crashing; shattered glass spewing in all directions, in rivers of red across the dance floor.

The grape-fragrant, monstrosity of a mess would have to be mopped, and now no one could dance! thought Prussia. 'I am so smart! I saved the day!!'

Dancing would make everyone tired, anyway. Why wear out their legs dancing, when everyone could get drunk instead.

"I guess I'll drink beer after all," Prussia said, and looked at the ceiling, and winked.

"Don't make a move!" someone exclaimed, standing with an index finger pointed and pressed to Prussia's back.

He peered over his shoulder, eyes wide, and mouth curled into a half-coiled snake. "America," said Prussia, and forced a laugh. "I was just thinking about you..."

Stammering, he added, "What a small world."


	3. Chapter 3

America's suit resembled the ballroom, if it were the tacky knockoff variation: loud prints of famous paintings in a collage on the jacket, with gold braiding sewed to the hem and cuffs. Powder-blue pants, and shiny shoes.

"You look pretty sharp tonight," said Prussia.

America grinned, and from behind his own back, withdrew a hidden rag mop, and thrust it into Prussia's hands.

"Clean it up," he said.

While the couples converged on the sidelines, huddled in groups of two or more -- Germany and Italy with Spain and Romano; The Nordic Five hovering near the Baltic Trio minus one, so Finland and Estonia could chat; Poland lurking near Lithuania and Greece and his cats and Japan and...where England and France were, who knows -- Prussia stood a solo performer in the middle of the dance floor, an island unto himself as no man is, but Prussia was an anomaly; the nation-less state in geographical limbo; the slicked back wisps of hair became un-gelled, and fell into his eyes, and around his face. He rubbed his forehead with his sleeve, and mopped with less vigor than Austria gives to walking or weeding, or pretty much any outdoor or physical activity, save the piano; playing that damn piano, and even the band fell silent, watching Prussia mop.

The room dead, and the squeaking, and sloshing of water in the bucket. Spilt wine, and nobody crying. Just scattered voices, and a few laughs.

"Can we get a little mood music, or something going, guys?" America asked, a wide smile, and his ahoge springing as he stepped towards the stage, leaping onto the bandstand. "I'll direct."

Prussia held the mop as if it were the staff of a gatekeeper, and no one was allowed to pass.

"If anyone should direct," shouted Prussia, "it should be..."

His eyes shot to Austria, who was standing on the sidelines with Hungary right next to him; always Hungary!! And Prussia dropped the mop, and marched away from the floor. The band struck up a song, without any direction from anyone. Auld Lang Syne without the New Year to punctuate it. Without the celebration, or good cheer, or fireworks, fanfare.

_Should old acquaintance be forgot..._

And Prussia slammed open a fire exit: the nearest door he could find. Hands on the steel bar, and he pressed it open, with a clacking of metal, internal, unseen mechanisms; followed by a deafening blare from an overhead alarm.

"Everyone stay calm!" America screamed in the ballroom. "I won't let anyone die in a fire! I'll lead the way...women and children, and the micronations, first!"

Germany, of course, was already carrying Italy in his arms, and Romano rode Germany piggyback, with tears in his eyes. A stedfast savior to the Brothers, and he'd drive them home, he promised, should they feel too upset to drive; and sure, their passengers, too: Austria and Hungary; and if Spain didn't lay off the wine... 

"You really think I wanted to make a mess!" Prussia shouted to the sky.

The first exit had led him to an open space: a patch of land with no grass; a lack of pavement; a lack of color; an equally anomalous geographical wonder of the world: a square the size of an average bedroom, walled in by the walls of the building, perhaps built by accident; born from poor planning, obscure architecture; a place for French smokers to sit in protest. A place filled with cigarette butts and ashes, on a floor of dirt and dead leaves. A place with three scraggly bushes, and no lights or music or people: just a quiet dead space: a black hole of a spot in the night riddled with disappointments, and now chaos. Spilt wine, and Romano was crying, and Italy was screaming, and America the hero, and Germany...

"Germany will probably leave me," Prussia said.

He crouched down to the dirt, and balanced himself on the toes of his bent dress shoes; sitting on his heels. He toyed with the cigarette butts at his feet. He drew pictures in the earth with his finger. If Gilbird hadn't flown to the domed ceiling, and perched there, on a painting's frame, Prussia would have had at least one friend to listen as he started to lament:

"If Germany has Italy, and Austria has Hungary, who does that leave me?"

He imagined Germany throwing the Italy Brothers into the backseat of his car, and buckling Austria in the passenger seat. Hungary could ride in the trunk...

Prussia stood, and kicked his drawing of stick figures dancing, and a ballroom in flames, and imagined the line of people rerouted from the ballroom; the arrival in reverse; the announcer saying everyone's name again, but backwards, as they left. Dispersing to the tune of Auld Lang Syne, played off-key and sped up, and "I've always hated that song anyway," Prussia said.

_Prussia of nation former the._

He turned to face the door, and wondered if anyone would find him. If anyone noticed he was missing from the festivities. If they knew he was the one who set off the alarm, or if they were aware there was no fire at all.

If the door could be opened from the outside.

A silver lining to the night's debacle of broken bottles and wasted wine, and a messy floor, and smelly mop, and false alarm, and unwanted detour to the colorless space enclosed by a building's four blank walls in Paris, France, was the fact, if no one would dance with Prussia, at least now, no one could dance at all; and no one could watch Prussia dance alone.

He put on a slow show for himself; just he and his shadow, and Fritz's ghost, perhaps, and 'God, I hope someone got Gilbird out of the ballroom! Even if it's not really on fire...I hope someone cared enough to save him. He may be lonely without me or my hair.' Prussia had the sudden idea to buy a wig and wig head, to keep the bird warm, and keep him company, for when Prussia was away.

A couple of soft laughs could almost be heard, from the rooftop. 'Naked sparrows,' thought Prussia. He raised a hand to his eyes, to try and see past the stars and moonlight and the sick yellow glow from the parking lot, but France and England's private party remained undiscovered. So what if they had a wine buffet to themselves? And left America to run the party; America, and some quiet guy Prussia didn't recognize, though he was sure he had seen him somewhere before...smelt sweet, but was otherwise unmemorable.

'You won't remember me in a few more decades, either,' thought Prussia, as he swayed, and turned, and danced with his shadow. "I'll have to sew you on with soap, when we get home, if you decide to dance away from me!"

Prussia read too many fairy tales; always devouring books with the voracious appetite of a scholar. A man on holiday in his mind.

"You oughta lead next," he said to his shadow, and bowed down, before hearing an applause.

"Old Fritz, you like my dancing?" Prussia asked the sky.

A clack of metal, and a squeaking of hinges in need of oil.

A second blare was expected to follow -- Pavlov's bell and the dog; but without food or salivation; just a door opening, and Prussia covering his ears.

"What are you doing out HERE?" asked Austria.


	4. Chapter 4

Austria stepped closer, but stopped, holding the door open with his gloved hand. A gray suit of pinstripes; a peplum, as if wearing a dress atop pants. An orchid pinned to his lapel. The moonlight reflecting off eyeglass to blur his squinted glare.

"How long have you been out here?" Austria asked.

He nudged the door, keeping four fingers pressed between it and the frame. As if not wanting anyone in the hall, to hear, or see; to know what Austria had discovered in the square. His own little secret. A treasure in a box of shame.

Prussia prepared himself for a lecture. For a scolding from Austria, about how playing with fire alarms, and spilling wine is undignified.

'You should have cleaned up your mess! You shouldn't have made one, to begin with!! What's wrong with you?!'

Prussia uncovered, but recovered his ears; grimaced, and a tear met his eyes. So he laughed. Sure! It was funny, wasn't it? The class clown of the countries. The ever-ready offering made to the gods of the nations: 'I'll be the funny one; the butt of the jokes; I'll be the humiliated one, trapped in Schrodinger's box. Am I here, or aren't I? Am I a country or not.'

Prussia laughed so hard, he placed a hand to his chest. His heart didn't hurt from the pain of knowing Austria was ashamed and disappointed; it hurt because he laughed too hard at himself! If you can't laugh at yourself...laugh with them; laugh louder. Drown it out with a flame lit always for your ability to laugh at any situation, no matter how painful.

"I can't change," said Prussia.

Where the statement came from, Prussia himself was baffled. But to Austria, it made sense; he nodded, and a small smile crossed his face. 

"I'm aware of that," said Austria. "No one asked you to."

He finally let the door fall closed; pressed it shut, to make sure, but was it locked? Did the cat exist inside the fellow Austrian's experiment? Alive and Dead all at once. Existing, but not existing. Surely Prussia was still a living creature. With a heart, and the ability to feel pain, just as anyone. He was human, wasn't he? 

"You're not helping matters by hiding," said Austria, as he paced across the square. Edging near Prussia, while removing a long metal object from his pocket. A water vapor cigarette: battery-powered, to heat nicotine-spiked water, so the smoker can see the 'smoke', even if there is no fire. The absence of a flame, but you breathe in, just the same, as if the smoke is real. No one questions the dangers of smoking nicotine, ah, but, without the tar or tobacco, you're left with a clean scent, so no one minds. No one is bothered by the fake smoke; the 'plastics' in life make everyone calm, and go on their way, and business, and...you can slowly kill yourself without judgmental eyes cast in your direction. 

"It's safer this way," said Austria, as he placed the vaporizer to his lips, and breathed in, holding a button; it clicked, and hissed, and he exhaled steam.

"What is that thing?!" Prussia asked. A child eyeing another child's new toy. "Let me try it!!" he said.

Austria smiled -- a full smile! Surely somewhere, an angel was born. Or maybe a future pianist learned his first note of an exemplary concerto. 

"All right," he said, handing the battery-powered cigarette to Prussia. Their fingers touched, gracing each other with slight blushes and an awkward glance or two. 

Of course, gloved hands weren't exactly as intimate as Prussia's bare skin.

He held the vaporizer to his own lips, and thought, 'It's almost like kissing,' by way of a machine. A second-hand kiss, through way of spit; via an inanimate object. He tasted the wine Austria drank earlier in the evening. It seems all Germanic countries forgo their beloved beer, while in Paris. _When in Rome_...drink Wine! While dancing with Italians, or Hungarians...

"Damn it," mumbled Prussia, as a puff of fog escaped his mouth, along with the profanity. 

"Don't you like it??" asked Austria. "I think it tastes like Spearmint."

The scent of candy wrapped in crinkly cellophane, often found hiding in the depths of a Grandmother's purse. Mint in the garden. Spring mornings, and rain, and...

"Why do you have this damn thing?" asked Prussia. He shook his head, and handed the vaporizer back to Austria. "I like real ones better." 

He patted his hip, but of course, had forgot to stash, in his tuxedo pants, a pack of cigarettes worthy of blowing smoke into the black sky. To extinguish with the soles of his patent leather dress shoes, to join the discarded souls of the French filterless cigarettes burned long before tonight.

"Have it your own way," said Austria. 

He slid the battery-powered mechanism back into his pocket. 

The two stood staring, and hearing noises from the parking lot. Countries shouting, and engines turning, and cars revving, departing in the distance. Tires on pavement, and gravel crunching beneath Austria's shoes as he pivoted on his heel, and made his way back towards the fire exit. 

"You're coming, aren't you?" he asked, turning his face, looking over his shoulder, to check and see if Prussia was following his lead. Tagging along, Prussia sulked, and stepped slower than the soft music heard overhead. 

"What's that?" he asked.

Prussia and Austria both looked towards the sky, and the rooftop. Surely somewhere, emitting from some device came a song. Not from the band ('Orchestra...Osterreich...Ostrich,' giggled Prussia), but from a mechanical object, and who cares if it's not real. You don't need humans to make music in present time, and you don't need fire to make heat, or a flame to bear smoke.

"You...want to dance?" asked Prussia. He extended his hand, outstretched arm, and a smile broken by doubt of anyone wanting to dance with the man who ruined the whole evening. Who ruined everything. The bane of his continent. The burden of the 20th Century. A problem to deal with, and a memory to sweep away, into the basement of the minds of the people who once exalted him as a great military power. A soldier at a ball, asking the prettiest person in the room, Would you please do me the honor...of acknowledging my existence? Pretty please?? 

An odd mixture of a laugh and a sigh emanated from Austria, as he blushed a full blush -- and surely, somewhere, in the outback, an Ostrich had its head unburied from sand. Oh the odd things Prussia imagined, as a gloved hand rested on his palm. As two countries danced in a dirt-floored square, as music floated down from overhead.

France smoked a real cigarette, and sipped wine kept-safe and iced in a silver urn. "See?" he asked England. "I told you this old Gramophone would come in handy."

The two lying lazy on the rooftop of the building. Stargazing, and reminiscing. The party thrown in their secret honor. An anniversary, of sorts. 

"Yes," said England. "I'm just shocked it still works."

"That's German engineering for you," said France.

England shrugged, and the two 'old friends' watched the two 'old friends' beneath them. The square below, as Prussia and Austria waltzed to soft music, long out-of-style, and forgotten by most. But they remembered.

They knew.

Prussia led the dance, and may have dipped Austria, with a grin, and his eyes bright and full of happiness, for once. 

God knows, Prussia deserved it -- if only a moment of it -- too. 

"You're just as clumsy as ever," said Austria. Despite Prussia's dance moves as graceful as a man dancing on a terrace somewhere in Vienna, at sunset, or in Madrid, with a rose between his lips. 

"You're just mad," said Prussia, "because you stepped on my toes, and not the other way around!" 

Austria paused, withdrew his hand, and removed his gloves with his teeth. He dropped them to the ground, by smiling. 

"Let's keep going," he said. "Your brother can wait all night, if he has to."

"And your date?" asked Prussia, as he began their dance again, this time, pressed together like a couple of lovesick kids at a high school prom. The last dance, and this one's for all you lovers out there; the last song on a late night radio program, before the sun comes up, and all the teenagers parked at a point, and making-out, will soon drive home, and have to explain to their parents, Just where have you been all night?!

'Well, Germany; Austria and I got trapped! We didn't do it; it was these two other guys...'

Cheek to cheek, and Austria's hands at the back of Prussia's neck. He smelt of Germany's cologne, which made Austria think of a certain Valentine's Day, ah, but that was ancient history now. There was only one brother -- one East -- who made Austria dance with his hands buried in wisps of hair, and his chin resting on a strong shoulder, not knowing its own strength, but never failing to brag about it.

"Hungary can wait too," said Austria. "She always does." 

Prussia cocked his head, eliminating the cheek-to-cheek of this impromptu slow dance. 

"Just once," said Prussia, "I wish I had a date of my own. Not somebody's leftovers." 

Austria stomped Prussia's toe on purpose. "I am your leftovers." 

If you want to save money, you can always re-heat last night's dinner. Love can be warmed, and re-served, and kept cold, to keep safe. When Prussia was ready for it, Austria was there to dish it out. 

His companion for the evening...dancing with the delicate touch, and move, of silk curtains in an open window. Silver light of moon, on Prussia's silver hair. Prepared to kiss his unexpected date, but wouldn't you know it, Germany found them, and 'saved' them from a flameless fire, before it was too late.

"Brother!" said Germany, as Austria and Prussia stepped away from each other. Broken again. "I was so worried about you."

"Mr. Austria!" said Hungary, as she trailed behind. 

The Italy Brothers were waiting in the car; asleep in the backseat. Spain was sitting on the hood, strumming a guitar he had found abandoned by the gun-shy band. 

The Seven Countries rode home, to their respective places of residence, in minimal comfort, and maximum silence.

Germany dropped them off, one by one, except for the Italy Brothers, whom he delivered in one armload. Awaiting in the vehicle was Austria and Prussia; Austria being their last stop. Why Germany hadn't dropped off Austria, on his way back from Hungary's, was anyone's guess. 

Go ahead and take it. Surely Germany knew his brother deserved happiness. 

Old Fritz's ghost in the passenger seat, and Gilbird, in his tiny coat, nuzzled in the glovebox, as Germany crept in Italy's house, tucking his favorite Italy Brother, into his bed. But not before undressing him. Of course, the Italian loved to sleep naked. 'Must be comfortable,' thought Germany. 'I'd hate for him to get overheated in the night...'

In the backseat, sat two countries who danced, if only briefly. The date within the evening marred by uneventful events, in Prussia's eyes. And in his arms rested a sleep-deprived Little Master. And a gloveless hand, in his hand. 

"I'd give you a goodnight kiss," said Prussia, "if I thought you'd actually remember it." He rested his head on Austria's, blowing at the latter's hair curl; the ahoge dubbed Mariazell tickled Prussia's nose. 

"Just because I never mention it in the daylight," said Austria, "doesn't mean I forget." 

It's amazing the memory a country can have, after years of war, and injuries riddle their minds with pain, and bad images. Prussia replaced his with comical things. With bravado and boastful claims. With romantic interludes of Austria as the mouse to his cat: both wearing tiny suits, and dancing to old French music. A scene from a cartoon...little animals nuzzling noses, as if kissing through sheer force of cuteness, and by the animator's will. 

Prussia placed his hand to Austria's chin, and pulled him in for a quick kiss, due to Germany rattling the car door, and pounding his fist on the steering wheel. 

"That damn Italy can sleep through anything," he said. 

Prussia laughed, as if king of the night. Prom king, in his white tuxedo, and he got the 'girl', didn't he? 

"Let's take this Spoiled Brat back to his house, and go get drunk!" he said. 

Germany nodded, and grunted a word of agreement. 

To their own countries; to their own beds. Not every night is a fairy tale. 

Not every event, deserves a happy end.


End file.
